


Day 7: Drool

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Coming Untouched, F/M, Gags, Light Bondage, Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26942284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Morfessa is doing science again. Luard is still pretending he doesn't love it.
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Day 7: Drool

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I have NO idea how to tag this and I don't know if "oral fixation" even means what I think it does. This is a fic about getting fingers shoved in your mouth in a horny way because I am very into that sorry, like, just a warning because I know some people think that's gross but I don't know what to tag it with.
> 
> I am really really losing steam on these on top of being really busy and tired irl so I'm falling behind a little bit sorry (you can probably tell as well with the quality dipping so hard AAAAAA), but I WILL continue and I WILL finish even if it takes me into November.

The moment Luard hears the distinctive click of heels on stone approaching his room, every primal instinct in his body starts firing off warnings as though the sound tripped some kind of alarm. The chill that shoots down his spine freezes him solid, and the beaker that he’d been working with starts to bubble dangerously, threatening to overflow its slick, oily-purple contents if left to its own devices. A drop trickles down the side, scorching his glove and sending up a tiny wisp of smoke, but the threat of imminent chemical burns suddenly seems entirely secondary to the sharp rap of knuckles on his door.

“Come i—” he starts, irritably, with a heavy sigh, but the door clatters off the wall before he can finish.

Morfessa sweeps into the room, her cloak somehow managing to avoid knocking even a single haphazard stack of books out of place. She has the air of a woman on a mission, as if Luard wasn’t already prickling with goosebumps enough, thank you very much, and she carries a leather satchel that no doubt contains something that’s about to either make or ruin his day. The odds are pretty much fifty-fifty, really.

“Luard,” she asks, “are you busy?”

“Yes,” he says, flatly, and no doubt pointlessly.

“I’ll wait,” she replies, and smooths out a spot on his rumpled bed where she sits, one leg crossed over the other, her bag perched ominously in her lap.

Of course, with her eyes on him, and the threat-slash-promise of whatever she’s carrying in there, there’s suddenly very little reason in trying to continue his work. The bubbling solution, having been left unattended too long, is starting to dissolve into a pungent, bitter gas anyway, and doesn’t earn him anything more than a tut of disapproval as he cleans it up — or the closest he’s interested in getting to doing so, which generally consists of shoving the mess into a corner and forgetting about it until it starts to cause problems, like becoming debilitatingly toxic, or gaining sentience, or both.

“Alright,” he sighs, finally, “what are you planning to subject me to this time?”

She smiles knowingly. “If you keep pretending you’re not interested, I’ll go to someone else instead.”

“It’s the only dignity I have left. Let me have this.” He ignores the heat rising in his cheeks, and eyes her satchel warily. “So, are you going to try and turn me into something weird again? Because I’d rather not do it in here. You’ll make a mess.” Even as he says it, he glances around, and realizes what a stupid complaint that is. “More of a mess. Look, I have a system.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replies, in a tone that says the exact opposite. From her bag, she takes a small, corked jar, half-filled with a colourless translucent ointment. “I’ve been working on a… personal project, and I need, as usual, a test subject. Kneel for me, please.”

Her heel taps the floor pointedly, and Luard narrows his eyes. “I didn’t agree to anything yet.”

“Were you going to refuse?”

“You haven’t even told me what it is,” he deflects, jerking his head towards the container.

“Don’t you enjoy discovering things for yourself?” With a threatening _pop_ , she uncorks the jar, and takes a gentle sniff. “It’s a… shall we say... stimulant, of sorts. I think you’ll find it very enjoyable. Now please, kneel.”

Another sigh, and Luard does as she asks, but makes a point of keeping his eyes hard, his brow furrowed, because he’s still not about to admit that she’s probably right on both counts. Not that she doesn’t know it, of course; she’s always dangling the greatest of all worldly desires — science, or sex, or both — in front of him, monitoring his reactions, probably writing up analytical papers on the best ways to torment him. He wouldn’t be surprised to find graphs of the times of day he was most likely to be busy, so she could devise the least perfect moment possible to show up.

It’s almost respectable, really. If nothing else, Lady Morfessa is dedicated to her work.

 _Almost_ , because today is quickly becoming the latest in a long line of scenarios where Luard finds himself beneath her, expressly avoiding her gaze and wishing dearly that his skin didn’t do that _thing_ where it turns redder than a Kagero dragon the moment she starts messing with him like this. At least he got to keep his clothes on this time.

He doesn’t get time to ask _why_ he has to been on the floor before she draws a circle in the air with a flick of her gloved fingers; there’s a _snap_ and suddenly the very molecules around them hum with magic, an energy that quickly fixates on a point, coalesces, and encircles Luard’s wrists as if magnetized to them. It pulls them together behind his back without a hint of remorse, swifter and more efficient than any physical restraints, forcing his spine straighter and stiffer than it’s ever felt the need to be on its own terms. It doesn’t have the same raw, tactile feeling as leather cuffs, but there’s still something about the simplicity of it that gets to him, or more specifically, to the tight heat that always starts building in his gut whenever Morfessa gets _like this_. Another thing he’s not about to open up about, lest it find its way into some kind of report detailing _Elven Sexual Responses to Dominance and Discipline_.

(She wouldn’t _publish_ anything without consent, of course; he has at least that much confidence in her character, but seeing that kind of thing on paper might very well be enough to kill him on the spot regardless.)

It takes Luard a moment to register the second object Morfessa pulls from her bag.

“The ointment is designed for internal use, you see,” she explains, as she prepares the metal-and-leather contraption that Luard recognizes as a spider gag. His jaw aches just _looking_ at its gleaming silver hooks, and a quiet, uncertain noise hisses through his teeth. He’s worn ring gags before, but this is like someone took that and crossbred it with a dental implement, and then added a bunch of straps to make sure it _really_ looked as absolutely fucked up as possible. “I thought this would be more fun than going in the other end,” Morfessa adds. “Mix things up a little.”

“How,” he asks, voice suddenly like sandpaper in his throat as he thinks _very hard_ about _not_ thinking about his ass, “is this supposed to work, exactl—”

Without warning, a thumb hooks his lower teeth. “You’ll see.”

Luard does not, in fact, see, at least not anything more than a flash of metal at the lower edges of his vision as she pushes the ring into his mouth. One set of straps tightens around his head, the ring settling into place between his teeth and staining his tongue with the taste of cool steel. The other two straps form a sort of inverted Y shape; they meet at a point above the bridge of his nose as she pulls the end over his head and fastens it along with the others, and Luard is certain that he looks absolutely ridiculous.

Prodding at the ring with his tongue only confirms what he’d already started to suspect — it’s even more restrictive than her other ring gags, the spider’s ‘legs’ ensuring that he can’t dislodge it from his mouth. His stomach does a little flip at the thought that the only way it’s coming off is when she removes it for him, but he puts that out of his mind, _so_ far out of his mind, because the absolute _last_ thing he needs right now is an erection, and for whatever inane reason his body always seems to decide _that’s_ the best response to being restrained.

Drool is _already_ trickling down his chin as Morfessa leans back and admires her work, prods his cheek with a finger to tilt his head left, then right — which he accepts, but makes sure to let out a garbled grunt of disapproval, which only broadens the smirk creeping over her features — and then she _finally_ turns her attention back to her little pot of whatever-the-hell-it-is.

“As I said,” she tells him, apparently finally deigning to explain herself a little, “my current formula is designed only for internal use. External test results have been universally negative, unfortunately — I’ll work on it, of course, but for now, I think this should still be interesting. It’s all very safe, naturally. I’ve tried it myself, if that makes you feel better, and I had a perfectly good time.”

It doesn’t, but the only sound Luard can let out is a breathy ‘ _haa_ ’.

“I’m just going to apply a little to the inside of your mouth,” she continues, scooping what feels like a _lot_ more than ‘a little’ onto a couple of still-gloved fingers. “Here, you can even smell it first, if you like.” She holds her fingers just under his nose, smiling graciously, as if she’s doing him a favor. It smells — surprisingly — not at all unpleasant, a faint odor of something honeyed or sugary or perhaps a flower that he doesn’t recognise. “See? Not bad, is it? Now, open wide.”

Luard groans in his throat, the sound coming out as an irritable gurgle.

“Good boy,” she says, and before he can even begin to process _that_ , her fingers are in his mouth.

The urge to bite down is immediately overwhelming. His teeth grind uselessly against metal, the ring too large to even give him enough wiggle room to relieve the tension in his jaw; it feels even bigger and crueler than her regular ring gags, somehow, if that’s even possible, and gives her plenty of room to fit two fingers covered in ointment. It’s almost like his whole body is stretched open for her, like she’s looking into a private, vulnerable area. Luard is no stranger to putting dangerous bullshit into his own mouth, but _that_ ’s _different_ , _that_ ’s something he has _control_ over, at least until it all goes horribly wrong and he swells up like a toad mid-croak — and _that_ doesn’t involve her gaze burning into his skin like he’s an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot day.

Knuckles curling, Morfessa presses her fingers to the inside of his cheek, the already-stretched skin complaining as she rubs the flowery-smelling gel into it. To his surprise, it’s actually pleasantly cool, even reliving the stiff burn in his jaw a little as she spreads it around, and tastes very faintly sweet. The smooth, rich leather of her gloves massages the gel into the roof of his mouth and even the area under his tongue, and the skin comes _alive_ as she does, warms despite the coolness of her touch, until every surface is tingling with _awareness_ , with the ghost of his own breath inside his cheeks, and he’s almost starting to think that _this isn’t so bad, maybe_ — and then she presses further, his mouth suddenly stuffed with leather all the way up to her knuckles. The cold slickness of her fingertips finds the soft palate at the back, and then Luard starts to _burn_.

Reflexively, his chest heaves, and he chokes, the sound muted against her fist. He jerks violently away, or tries to — her other hand finds the back of his head, fingers twisting in his loose hair, holding him firmly in place.

“Be a good boy, okay,” she coos, ignoring the convulsions in his throat as she spreads out the last of the ointment. Drool pools in the front of his mouth as she finally withdraws her hand, smearing the very last remnants of gel over his lips, and the warmth that overflows and trickles down his jawline only makes his skin redder and more flushed both inside and out, any coolness or relief that the gel had given him as she applied it already burning away.

 _When did he get so_ hot _?_

“Ah,” she says, “much faster results than expected. Interesting.”

Luard gurgles again, more drool pouring down his chin, and without the imminent threat of her inside him it becomes impossible not to notice the _heat_. It’s scalding against his skin, in his mouth, at the back of his throat, and getting more and more so every second, the areas she touched crackling as if he was holding a mouthful of miniature fireworks.

“Whh—” he moans, drool bubbling as he spits the half-formed sound out. _What’s happening?_ _What did you do to me?_

“Deceptive, isn't it?” she laughs. “Nice and cool at first, but as it reacts with your skin, well— I’m sure you’re figuring it out. You’re a smart boy.”

Another attempt to speak only results in another boiling torrent of drool. It’s dripping directly from the roof of his mouth now too, he can _feel_ it, every individual drop, every spark as it hits his tongue. His vision blurs as he tries to take it in, to _process_ the feeling, like every nerve ending in his body has been redirected to the same few inches of skin, his legs and fingers prickling with a numbness that he barely even registers.

When Morfessa shoves her fingers back in his mouth, he _screams_ — or tries to. No sound comes from his throat, only a harsh gasp, and even _that_ is like a burst of flame across his hypersensitive tongue. Teeth clench again around the metal ring, but it, again, refuses to give, and that too only earns him a fiery jolt of pain.

The way her fingertips trace across the roof of his mouth this time is, despite everything, almost _loving_. He’d expected more of the ointment, but her gloves are dry — or were, at least, because the moment she touches him, he predictably drools all over her — and she strokes around the curve of his upper jaw with a casual reverence that, if it was anyone else, in any other place, any other situation, he would have unquestionably called 'romantic'. As it is, though, the touch is like oil on the fire that is his skin, tightening his throat and jaw and building a feverish pressure somewhere inside him.

Another wet gasp, and she smiles again, pinching his tongue between her fingers and rolling it back and forth like some sort of toy. He can do little to stop her, not just because of the gag but because of how purely _overwhelming_ the touch is; it shoots straight though his body, down his spine, lights up the heat that’s pooling _there_ too, a demand that he hadn’t noticed until now, and it’s suddenly far too late to stop.

One more stroke over his palate is all it takes, and Luard comes.

It’s almost anticlimactic. So much of his body’s attention is focused on one point, convulsing around the pressure in his mouth, that he barely even _feels_ it, and the primary indication that anything happened at all is a swiftly spreading stain on his clothing. Even _that_ blends in with the damp splotches of drool on his chest and thighs, and for one shining second he thinks that maybe Morfessa didn’t even notice.

“Well, well,” she purrs, and his hopes are instantly snuffed out by her _tone_ alone. “Much faster results than expected all round, I see.”

The ever-present steel in his mouth prevents Luard from mounting a defense, and he’s sure _that_ was part of her intention too. She mercifully withdraws her fingers, at least, a shiny trail of drool stretching between them and his lip. She wipes it off on his cheek, smearing it further across his face.

Luard’s eyes are thankfully dry, he realizes — for once — although the knowledge that he’s spared additional humiliation there only by the fact that every drop of moisture in his body is busy pouring out of his mouth is something of a cold comfort. A bubble bursts against his tongue, and he shudders in something that might have been pleasure, but he prefers to think of as pure shame, because that’s easier.

Morfessa, on the other hand, seems _incredibly_ pleased with herself.

“Just think what we can do once I get this to work externally,” she says, straight back to her usual businesslike self. “Imagine the ability to turn _any_ part of the body into an erogenous zone. The possibilities are endless.”

Luard can’t even answer her with a groan. The dribble of drool trickling over his lip is still burning, skin still prickling uncontrollably despite his body's momentary relief, and he gets the feeling she’s not at all interested in engineering something as merciful as a variant that wears off after orgasm.

“Thank you very much for your assistance,” she says, reaching down again and patting him on the head. Her tone is surprisingly genuine, and somehow _that’s_ the one thing that finally succeeds in cooling Luard a little. “I’ll just leave this in for a while, shall I?” She traces the curve of the ring as she speaks. “Until it all wears off.”

She neglects, of course, to tell him how long that will take, but to her credit, she stays with him the entire time, cradling his head against her legs and graciously ignoring the drool stains he leaves on her leggings, and despite the ache in his jaw and uncomfortable stickiness in his pants, Luard finds he can’t quite remember what it was he was so busy with before.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest one yet and honestly this is probably why I'm struggling to keep up so hard, so, for the next couple I am going to try and cut it down WAY closer to the original 500 word goal. This is my challenge to myself.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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